


Skipping Stones

by ForgottenChesire



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sick Character, liberties were taken with curses and how to break them, some torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:47:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22835011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForgottenChesire/pseuds/ForgottenChesire
Summary: Time that slips through his fingers. He knows he spent two months at Saint Mungo’s. Knows because the Healers were so surprised he survived that long. Knows that he had been on the case, hunting down monsters masquerading as wizards and witches, for three before that. But then he’d gotten caught. They had pinned him down. They had laughed and laughed as they tortured him. To send a message. And then one had picked up a chess piece. A muggle chess piece. One that glowed and pulsed. One that caused the air around it to shimmer. Words had been said. Illness and curse thrown about.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Ron Weasley
Comments: 14
Kudos: 89
Collections: Ron/Draco Fest - Better Together





	Skipping Stones

**Author's Note:**

> While angsty in parts this does have a happy ending. I took some liberties with how curses work and how to break them. Ron has been tortured and I don’t think it’s anything too graphic, he does think about it and it does cause some issues.

The room is small, smaller than even his room at the Burrow, but it’s warm. And there is a soft bed underneath him instead of a hard cot. Which confuses him. They had left him to die. Alone. Separated from the other patients of Saint Mungo’s. The Healers had given up on him. He remembers that. Remembers the rare moment of lucidity, despite all the potions they shoved down his throat. Potions that burned and chilled in equal measure. Potions that seemed to be worse than the very curse driven illness slowly sapping away his strength.

“There’s nothing we can do,” one Healer had said. Muttered softly and under their breath.

“It would be a mercy to let him starve,” another had said. 

And then there had been shouting. And screaming. And Merlin’s left saggy ball, there had been so much damn pain that he fled back into the blackness and prayed for death. But death hadn’t come.

And now he is awake again. Looking around this tiny room and wondering, in the way one does when it hurts to think, if he’s actually going to die alone. It’s become a fear of his. Terrible and biting. Reared its ugly head after the break up; when it became apparent that they couldn’t change enough to work in the long run. And again when Harry married Ginny. When one by one it became obvious that he no longer fit in his family’s lives. Dying alone, with no one to hold his hand, to run their fingers through his hair, to hear his apologies he’d never been able to voice, it’s surpassed even his fear of spiders. Maybe it had always been there.

The door opens, bright light spilling into the room like an overturned drink. Merlin, it hurts. Burns worse than looking into the sun. He hadn’t realized how dark it was in the room until that moment. Stubbornly, he keeps looking. Refusing to close his eyes and chance falling back into oblivion. The sheer weight that sits on his chest and the clawing at the back of his eyelids be damned.

When Draco Malfoy steps into the room, Ron has the urge to pinch himself. He knows that Draco cares about him. You don't shag someone on and off and not care a little about them. But that was months ago. Before Harry had come with those great big green eyes of his and pleaded with Ron. And like the great loyal oaf that he is, Ron had said yes when he should have said no. Left without a word to Draco and got himself cursed. Because he's been off the job too long. Useless.

Ron mentally shakes those thoughts from his head. Tries to physically shake them out too and regrets it. His neck cramping, locking up, causing him to miss Draco close the door with his foot. Something smells good. Causes his empty stomach to gurgle and groan. He’s not sure when he ate last, nor is he sure that he can keep anything down.

Draco sits down beside him. Is silent. No 'What were you thinking, Weasel?' No 'Where were you?' Or even 'I told you so' as Draco often said that Ron was going to end up being too helpful, too eager to please and wind up dead. Ron wants him to say something, anything. And then the blond looks at him.

There are impossibly dark bags under his eyes. Already pale skin, pallid. He looks so sickly. Like he's the one dying. Which makes an uncomfortable pit grow in Ron's stomach. One that wars with the gnawing pain of an unfed stomach. His chest heaves and his throat  _ burns _ like he swallowed a mouthful of coal.

"Weasel?"

There is a clink of something being put down. A bowl maybe? Held out of sight and hastily almost dropped. Draco leans over him. Cool, shaking fingers cup his head and chapped lips are pressed to his face over and over.

"You're awake," the words are whispered like a prayer against his skin. He's done this to Draco. Dark thoughts try to invade, but he ignores them. Focuses on the feel and smell of his lover above him.

Ron tries to talk. Opens his mouth, fights past the coal, vibrates his throat. Nothing comes out. Bloody hell. Bloody bugger hell, he tries so hard that even his teeth start to hurt.

"Don't try to talk," Draco says. Breathes against his lips before pulling away. But Ron doesn't want to be silent. Silence is never good, and there has been too much silence. But Draco gives him a stern look, eyes hard and lips pressed thinly. So it's silence that wins and not his stubbornness. It's in silence that Draco carefully feeds him.

When the bowl is emptied, Ron reaches out. Wants to touch, to hold, to feel warmth beneath his hand. Wants this not to be a dream. Because in the two months that he had been in Saint Mungo’s he had plenty. Dreams of people coming to rescue him from the sterileness of the hospital. Only to melt into flesh colored goo and change into a nightmare when he touched them. His hand, bandaged and burned, ugly and deformed, stops moving. Hovers over the blankets. Twitches. Shakes. He likes this dream the most so far, if it is a dream. Even with the silence and the pain. Pain that he can’t escape in his dreams. He doesn’t want to think about the potion they forced on him when he told them, the one that made the dreams stop but still had him waking with screams tearing up his throat.

He  _ wants _ . He wants but he’s too scared.

“Ron?”

He tears his eyes away from his hand and up to Draco’s face. The face that speaks of wear and pain and fear that mirrors his own. Or tries to. Surely, Draco isn’t afraid of this being an illusion? Hesitantly, meekly, Ron raises his hand up the rest of the way. Stretches it out, it feels like something tears, but he ignores it. Draco leans in, meets his hand halfway. And he  _ doesn’t _ melt. He doesn’t  _ melt _ . Ron smiles and blackness swallows him up.

* * *

Time. It’s something Ron thought he would have more of. Something that never mattered too much until, suddenly, he didn’t have enough left.

“Stop being so dramatic,” Draco snaps at his side. He’s got half moon reading glasses on that remind Ron, uncomfortably, of Dumbledore. Ron raises an eyebrow at his lover. He hadn’t voiced those thoughts and unless the blond picked up Legilimency during the… time Ron was away-

“You have that look on your face, Weasel,” Draco says, looking back down. He’s reading a book with words that Ron isn’t sure are even English. Grey eyes flash back up to his face for a moment.

“The one that says, ‘I’m going to be an annoying twat of dramatic proportions for various reasons, most being disgustingly self sacrificing.’ One has to learn that face fast.”

There is a fond tone that takes any bite from the words. Draco glares at the book in front of him.

“I had to thank Potter for pointing it out.  _ Potter _ , Weasel.”

He laughs. Shouldn’t. His ribs shift and he thinks his lungs call him a wanker and it  _ hurts _ .  _ Hurts _ has become commonplace. Draco tutts at him. Unimpressed and only a little unsympathetic. But that’s fine.

“Nerd.”

Draco frowns at him, mouth opening to scold him.

“Shouldn’t… read… ruin… your… sight.”

He’s proud of himself for getting out that many words. And he’s not lying either. While his room isn’t pitch black it’s far too dark in here to read. He gets a sympathetic headache just thinking about it. Even if those aren’t the words he wants to say. Time. He thought he had it. 

“I’ll be fine. And don’t talk, your throat still hasn’t healed.”

There are  _ emotions _ that he wants to discuss. To dissect. Hermione always said he was shite at it. Thought he had time. Time that slips through his fingers. He knows he spent two months at Saint Mungo’s. Knows because the Healers were so surprised he survived that long. Knows that he had been on the case, hunting down monsters masquerading as wizards and witches, for three before that. But then he’d gotten caught. They had pinned him down. They had laughed and laughed as they tortured him. To send a message. And then one had picked up a chess piece. A muggle chess piece. One that glowed and pulsed. One that caused the air around it to shimmer. Words had been said. Illness and curse thrown about.

But in the moment, he hadn’t paid any attention. Because they had picked it up with magic. Floated it up and over to him. Forced his palm open and down went the piece. It had happened in seconds. But the  _ fire that _ had raged, burned, and wrapped around him like a blanket made it feel like centuries. There are so many other injuries, grievous and scary as they were, that he would rather suffer again than feel it. Skin had melted, the piece fusing into it. And oh, oh, had it hurt when they’d ripped it from his skin. Left him in the abandoned house he had tracked them to. For how long, he doesn’t know. Just like he doesn’t know how long he’s been at Draco’s.

“You have that face again,” Draco scolds him, leaning over to gently flick his nose.

“Not,” he manages to whisper. 

* * *

“Are you here to drag me back?”

That’s Draco. Draco shouldn’t be here. He should be safe at home. Not here. Merlin, no, no, no.

“Of course not. Draco, I’m on your side.”

Hermione? What?

“I… I know… It’s just…”

“A bad day. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. I’m fine. We’re fine.”

Ron doesn’t know what’s going on. Doesn’t understand. They shouldn’t be here. Be with him. Not here. In this hell of pain and destruction. Of nothingness. He doesn’t understand.

“You aren’t. None of us are.”

There is a noise. Something hitting the ground. _They_ are back. They need to _leave._ Run. Please run.

“Is there a reason you’re here?”

Why aren’t you running?

“I brought more books on curse breaking, and proper food for you.”

Run!

* * *

He wakes with a scream. Healing throat crying out as he abuses it. The fire is back. Burning. Burning.  _ Burning _ . Everything is burning. Something warm dribbles down his chin. He wants to die. Just let him die.

“Ron?!”

He just wants it all to end. Let it end. He’s so tired.

“Weasel. Weasel, you’re safe. You’re safe.”

How can he be safe if he’s on fire? Hands touch his face. Cups it. Thumbs rub on his cheeks. It’s grounding. Makes the flames turn down. Draco is here. Above him. Hair messy and ink smeared on his cheek like he fell asleep on a scroll.

“You’re safe.”

He’s safe. He’s safe and he woke Draco up when he needs his sleep. He tries to say sorry. Lips form the words.

“Don’t.”

“Sorry.”

Draco sighs, his hands leave Ron. He lets  _ go _ . Starts to move away. Panic rises like a great wave, comes crashing over in panicky gasps as Ron struggles to follow. He doesn’t want to be alone.

“You won’t be. Just getting a rag, Weasel.”

It’s cool and wet and washes away the sweat and tears and blood. Silence. Draco is so silent as he washes Ron’s face. Goes still when Ron hesitantly reaches out. Always does. Only leaning in at the last second. Giving Ron the chance to change his mind. There are so many words that he wants to say, that are locked in his throat. 

“I’m not going to just let you die. I’m going to  _ fix _ this.”

_ But what if fixing me, destroys you? _

* * *

It’s a good day. No nightmares. No extra pain. Draco smiles and there isn’t a hint of sadness in his eyes. They’re playing chess. Wizard’s chess. Won’t be able to look at the set that Hermione gave him for Christmas last year for a good long while. His pieces move dutifully when he tells them. They’re old but they are his and they gleam even with their breaks that have been fixed over time. Ron thinks that Draco is trying to say something with them, or maybe his own mind is.

“Potter wants to visit.”

Ron snorts, grimaces slightly. He can talk enough to order his pieces about but not  _ talk _ . So he writes out his response.

‘You can call him Harry.’

Merlin, Ron loves the sound of Draco’s laughter. It’s not the laugh that he had as a child, more carefree and less sneering. Loud and ungraceful.

“I know, but it irritates him almost as much as me calling you Weasel.”

That gets the blond an eye roll.

‘Arse.’

“You love it.”

He does.

‘Don’t make me laugh, it hurts.’

That gets Draco to laugh again.

“My wit cannot be contained, Weasel, you know this.”

Ron inclines his head agreeing without words. When playing chess,  _ silence _ never really has a chance to fall. Unless it’s been enlarged by a Transfiguration teacher trying to keep something safe; but that is neither here nor there. Not really. He shakes himself, shakes those thoughts from his head as a silent not silence drapes over the both of them.

“I told him that I saw no reason why he couldn’t.”

Ron could think of a few. Could list them in ink if he really wanted. But he stays quiet. Which is a mistake as Draco begins to explain himself.

“While it is my flat, that wasn’t what he was asking and we both knew it.”

Draco doesn’t need to do this. To explain. 

“Warned him that if it’s a bad day, he’ll have to leave. If he so much as makes you wince he’ll have to leave.”

Makes sense. Sucks for Harry. Not only are Ron’s good days few and far between, but Draco guards him jealously on those few good days. He orders his queen in place, smiling contently when she yells out ‘check’ for him. Draco clears his throat.

“Why does your best friend and brother-in-law think you  _ wouldn’t _ want to see him?”

Draco’s knight takes Ron’s queen, and is taken in return by the bishop that’s lying in wait.

‘It’s complicated,’ he writes as his bishop yells ‘checkmate’.

Draco tilts his head, collecting his pieces carefully.

“Can you uncomplicate it?”

‘Nope.’

“Prat.”

‘You love me.’

* * *

There is a potion in front of him. Ron doesn’t like potions. Hates them. He looks up from the frothy pink thing and up to Draco. Draco who looks just about as bad as Ron feels. Draco who looks so bloody hopeful. With a fortifying breath, Ron picks it up and downs it. It’s freezing cold, sliding down his throat at a slugs pace. At least this one tastes of cinnamon instead of shite.

They wait. They always wait. Before, with the Healers and the time that Ron wishes he could forget, it was a torture in itself. To see if the potion meant to help him would cause more harm. And they almost always harmed him. They burned and froze and made things worse and gave him new pains. The silence, the stares, as the Healers waited for him to start screaming. To start bleeding. He’ll never be able to step foot in a library again. 

Draco bites his lip. Uncharastically unsure as they wait. There’s a joke to be said somewhere. To break the tension and make Draco smile. It’s there on the tip of his tongue. Waiting for his now healed throat to form. He opens his mouth, eyes sparkling… and then he yawns. Not a small little thing either. One of those jaw cracking, face splitting yawns that never seem to end. His jaw pops. It doesn’t hurt. Why should it? Bones pop all the time. Sure this time he can’t quite shut his mouth right but it’s fine.

It’s fine, he tries to tell Draco that. Everything is fine. He smiles dreamily, not sure when he left his bed to get on a gently swaying broom. Or did Draco get a flying carpet. He giggles. Those are illegal, naughty Draco. His eyes start to close. He likes this potion. There’s no pain. He likes that. Shoulders relax and down he goes. Yeah, this potion is the best so far.

He wakes, unsure of when he fell asleep to sobbing. Sobs that echo in the room, made louder by memories.

“Draco?” he tries to say though it comes out more like ‘Draaa?’

Draco kisses him, he knows it’s Draco even though he can’t see him because he knows the feel of those lips. Chapped and yet soft. Shaking fingers run through his hair.

“It’s okay.”

The jumbled mess doesn’t sound right. Not even proper bloody syllables. He frowns, clears his throat, fights back a sob of his own.

“We’ll try again, at least I didn’t puke this time?”

It sounds even worse than the other attempts at speaking.

“Stop trying to talk, Weasel. Please.”

Draco moves, curls around him. 

“You stopped breathing.”

“If the curse doesn’t kill you, I will. There is no spell, I’ve tried those. Back when you were too sick to be awake. Ran out of books. So many books, even ones that Hermione probably shouldn’t have let me look at. I’m killing you.”

“No.”

There that comes out right. He wants to say more.  _ You aren’t killing me. Even when I bleed. When I puke. When my heart stops and you have to restart it.  _ **_You_ ** _ aren’t killing me. With each failure, I’m killing you. _ He wants to say all that. Struggles to move. To grab Draco’s face, the fear that’s always there taking a backseat as he kisses the blond fiercely. Pressing their mouths together like it’s the only way to get air in their lungs.

“No,” he says again when they pull apart. Wet laughter, a soft kiss.

“Okay.”

_ I think I love you more than I can ever say. _

* * *

* * *

The potion fizzes. Once. Twice. A loud pop before it turns a mint green. It smells disgusting. Crabbe once hid a sweet roll in his underwear drawer ‘for later’ and then promptly forgot about it for a month. The smell of that is heaven compared to the scent coming out of the potion. Draco crinkles his nose, too tired to gag. Instead, he looks over the recipe in the book again. He wants this to work. Needs this to work. He can’t lose his Weasel.

With a sharp exhale he looks away from the book and to the bed containing his lover. Ron might as well be made of paper with how thin he is. Skin whiter than his own, eyes sunken in like a vampire. Ron is dying. Losing weight no matter how much Draco forces him to eat. The burn on his hand, his dominant hand, the hand that Ron tries to use for  _ everything _ , hasn’t healed. It’s still as nasty and oozy as it was when Draco first brought him home. The shape stark and pulsing, a knight Harry had told him one visit. Had said that like he was hating some sort of irony.

It’s been nearly a year and a half since the start of this. Since Ron missed a check in with Harry. A year and a half. His hands clench. Far too long. Not that Ron knows. Not that he cares. Time has lost meaning to him. That’s going to end, Draco is going to end this or die trying.

“You have that face again,” Ron calls out. Eyes are unfocused. It’s not a good day. It’s not a bad day. It’s just a day and Draco hates how thankful he is for that.

“What face?”

“I’m a pompous prat who takes the weight of the whole world onto my shoulders face.”

“Do not.”

“Do. Potion time?”

Words aren’t needed. Ron knows the drill by now. Takes the potion with only the smallest grimace.

The scream, when it happens, is… it’s horrible. Indescribable. High pitched and so loud. Like a horse that’s broken it’s leg. And it goes on and on. But that’s not what has Draco’s attention. It’s Ron’s hand. It glows a dark purple. The light filling the room in pulsing waves. Lasting long with each influx. And then with one swelling concentration of light, dark purple changing to an acid green, it explodes out. With that explosion of light Ron’s screaming ends and Draco is thrown across the room.

“Ron?!”

He crawls, back aching and unable to see. Hands skittering on the floor like a spider trying to avoid being stepped on until he finally reaches the bed. Pulls himself up even when the weight of the world tries to drag him back down.

“Weasel, please talk to me?”

There is a cough. Two coughs.

“Marry me?”

“Don’t… Don't joke with me.”

He still can't see. But he finds Ron’s face, fingers clumsy and poking Ron in the eye once or twice. Leans down to rest his forehead on Ron’s. He’s not going to cry. He’s not.

“Weren't joking, Ferret,” is the weak response, “no matter what happens… I wanna marry you.”

Someone cast a rain spell in the house that’s why his face is wet. He isn't crying.

“My vows are going to make Harry’s head explode.”

Ron laughs a laugh that's more of a cough.

“Oi, be nice to my best man.”

Soon the only sounds in the room are Ron's ragged breathing and the shuffling of clothes. Draco keeps his fingers curled in Ron’s hair mouthing prayers he doesn't know will be answered but taking a chance anyways.

“Draco?”

“What?”

“I… I don't hurt.”

There is a fragile edge to Ron’s voice that causes him to pull away. His eyelids are heavy and he doesn't remember closing them but that doesn't matter. It doesn't matter because Ron is afraid. His skin has a healthy flush that wasn't there before, still too pale but it has color now. Carefully, Draco reaches down, picks up Ron’s injured hand. He unwraps it, it needs changing anyway, and drops the hand in shock.

The wound is healed. It's _ healed _ ! He laughs, picking up Ron’s hand again and pressing kisses to the scar. That's all that is left. A scar. Deep and ugly and in the shape of a horse’s head, but it's healed. He did it.

“Draco?”

He kisses Ron.

“I want a small wedding. No pomp, no parade, just us. Just our friends and family.”

There is still a lot of healing to do. Ron isn't out of the woods just yet. But at least  _ now _ he has a chance. At least now there is hope. The curse, or whatever spell that had been cast on that chess piece Ron had been forced to touch has been broken.


End file.
